


Be Smart, Vote Hart

by badwips



Category: True Detective
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Collaboration fic, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwips/pseuds/badwips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2016: The inaugural year of President Martin Eric Hart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Smart, Vote Hart

What do you get the leader-to-be of the free world, a corsage?

Marty already has too many gifts from well-wishers piled up from the lobby to beyond, and he’ll have more over four years. And then four more, if he plays into the right hands, remains as popular as he’s somehow managed to become. America’s favourite sons are the salt-of-the-earth type.

It could be an irritating social conundrum, but no, you order flowers for his wife, keeping up those appearances, her favourites. And Rust’ll buy Marty a drink. He wouldn’t expect less. Or, as he’s cleared by Security and let into the residence, he thinks he’ll pour him a drink from his own cabinet, which will no doubt be better than Rust can currently afford with the petty cash in his pockets. Not that he’ll take advantage of his new position; more it’ll take advantage of him. All of them might get used up: it’ll test them, shred the lines and boundaries of privacy, more work just so they don’t go for each others throats. They didn’t on the campaign. If anything it tied them together, tighter. Years of being close and suddenly it’s a political advantage.

 

* * *

 

'You’re doing it wrong.'

A bump of her hip, a jab of her elbow: Claire squeezes between Marty and the mirror, takes the two ends of his tie in her hands and yanks at them once, hard. He says, 'Y’know, if you just bought me clip-ons, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.'

'Marty, you’re a man, not the twelve-year-old kid who got picked to be ringbearer at mommy’s second wedding.' She’s tugging at his tie like she’s trying to choke him. That’s the Texas in her, hard as old nails and twice as brittle. The last vestiges of her childhood are somewhere in there, that feral little girl with scraped knees and wild hair, the girl he’s only ever seen pictures of, only ever heard stories about, trapped deep behind hairsprayed updos and a featureless, clipped accent that could be from anywhere or absolutely nowhere at all. Doing your husband’s tie is supposed to be one of those candid polaroid moments, but Claire’s turning it into something one step away from a mud wrestle. Still, the slither of silk between her fingers lulls him; it’s a false kind of gentle, manufactured, inanely comforting. 'I didn’t buy this one, anyway. This one’s from Patricia. Want to know how I can tell? It’s ugly.'

It doesn’t look ugly to him. Navy blue, patterned with a diagonal stitch in white. Still. There’s no point arguing with Claire when it comes to her stepmother. So: 'If it’s so ugly, why are you goddamn strangling me with it?'

'You’re not wearing this one for the inauguration, and she’ll start making noises come out of her face if she doesn’t see you wear it sometime. So you can wear it somewhere I won’t be embarrassed to be seen with you – i.e. here. Tonight. For dinner.'

_Here_ is Blair House, Pennsylvania Avenue. _Tonight_ is January nineteenth. _Dinner_ is a last-ditch private celebration, family and close friends only. In other words: Marty’s parents, Claire’s parents, and Rust. Marty likes to disagree with Rust on principle just to see the look on his face, but on the subject of dinner, tonight, in the Blair House dining room, they’re both unanimously in agreement: _Stupid idea. Insanely stupid idea. Whose idea was this again?_ It’s more than a little alarming that the only thing they’ve agreed on off the bat since the campaign even started is how much neither of them wants to be force-feeding himself with roast beef and making polite conversation over glasses of fizzing champagne the night before Marty’s sworn in as President.

'I don’t think it looks that bad,' Marty says, double-chinning himself to look down at it.

Claire gives it one final yank. 'You _would_ say that. Think back to the time Geraci ran a smear campaign which featured the line “why would you want a President who can’t even dress himself?” _Then_ come back to me with your assessment of this tie.' Finished, her hands shift to the back of his neck, and she leans close to press a firm kiss to his lips. Marty wants to hear the tick-tick-tick of the zip of her dress as he slides it down her back. Instead, there’s the creak of the front door as it opens and slams shut, and then, ever the fucking mood-killer, Rust’s voice, curt and unyielding and with typical Cohle panache:

' — you two fuckin’ up there?'

'He’s a charmer alright,' Marty says, with the kind of fondness that barely conceals the mild but deep-rooted kind of permanent disgruntlement. 'Placate him. I gotta find a pair of socks.'

 

* * *

 

_Placate him._ Just what the hell is that supposed to mean? Dangle a bunch of keys in front of his face? As she’s descending the stairs, patting at the hair slides that are keeping her bun in place to make sure nothing falls out, Claire adjusts the strap of her bra with a roll of her shoulder and catches the top of Rust’s head when she drops her gaze. He’s wearing Dolce  & Gabbana. He always smells like cigarettes. He’d taste like cigarettes, too, she thinks, if she licked a line up from the base of his spine to the back of his neck. Ashy and heady with smoke.

She’s still thinking about this when she puts a hand on his arm and says, 'Hey. Come on in. Let me get your coat.'

‘Don’t think I’d want to be the last person you aim that nicety towards,’ Rust says, smiling a little, ‘First Lady.’

'I'm being cordial. Give me your coat.' She grins, putting a hand on his upper arm as she reaches the hallway. 'C'mon, come sit down. Don't want you standing in the hallway like you're unwelcome. I’ll take those, too.' There’s a bouquet of satiny red orchids in one hand, a bottle of Dom Perignon in the other; she reaches for the flowers, holds them at arm’s length to watch the filmy petals pinking in the light.

Shrugging off his trench; he follows at her elbow, coat slung over his arm as they they pass the bustling sound of people preparing the dinner.

She just about steers him through to the Dillon Room, shepherds him into a seat, swiping his coat from him. 'Victory is mine,' she says, holding the coat aloft like an award show statuette. 'I’d like to thank the Academy.' Padding back out to the hall, she sets Rust's coat on a hook in the coat closet and moves to the bottom of the stairs to call for Marty. He doesn't reply, but she can hear his thumping steps, the low rumble of him talking. Sighing, she heads back into the lounge. 'How are you feeling about tomorrow?'

‘I’m wonderin’ which one of y’all is the bride.’

'Ha ha.' She twists her ring on her finger. 'Don't pull that one out on Marty. He's feeling very insecure at the minute.' And then: 'Nice suit. Is it new?'

'Don’t fuckin’ remind me.' A look of concentrated fury rolls over his face, dissipates in an instant.

'So you do own more than three suits?' It hit the internet a few days ago: _Just how many suits does the VP-to-be actually own?_ Someone’s in-depth analysis of Rustin Cohle’s fashion habits came up with the answer that it had to be three, no more, no less. Marty laughed himself stupid reading it.

'Never said that. Am I early?' He’s looking around, craning his neck as if he’s expecting members of their families to just pop up out of nowhere and start interviewing him. At the prim little shake of her head, his shoulders slump.

'Are you drinking tonight?' The bottle of champagne makes a soft thump when she leaves it on the table. He looks horrendously out of place, stick-limbed, squinting around as if he’s suddenly not sure how he got here. Strangling the flower stems in her hand, she says, 'Stupid question. Sorry. I forget. You want a glass of water?'

'Naw.' He falls silent while she folds herself into the seat beside him, still holding the bouquet, oblivious to the faint damp patches the stems are leaving on the fabric of her dress. 'Where is he?'

'Upstairs, locating socks.'

Rust presses a noise between his teeth. 'Goddamn. He ready for tomorrow, you think?'

'No take-backs if he isn’t.' And, at the look on Rust’s face: 'He’s fine. I heard him mumbling his speech in the shower this morning. He knows it backwards.'

'Knowin’ it backwards ain’t any use if he doesn’t know it forwards, Claire.'

He says her name slow, drawling: _Clay-uhr._ A pleasant, bubbly sort of feeling presses at the inside of her cheeks, twists her lips up into a smile. 'Figure of speech, Rust.' And then: 'Hah. _Speech_. I should have gone into comedy.'

'You married Martin Hart. Same thing.'

'Treason.'

'Wasn’t a funny joke, neither.'

'Double treason.'

Marty’s footsteps on the landing, then the stairs. Claire wonders if he thinks about licking Rust too.

In the doorway to the Dillon Room, Marty squints between them, leans against the frame and says, with one hand in his pocket, 'This is the worst goddamn welcoming committee I’ve ever seen.'

Rust straightens, lopes to the door of the room and lets Marty hug him in that alpha-male clap-on-the-back kind of way; when Marty stretches up, Claire catches a glimpse of his socks, one argyle-print, the other navy blue. There’s a fleeting swell of panic that he’s not ready for tomorrow, which she’s swallowed down by the time she pops the cork out of the champagne with a strong-armed tug.

Socks aren’t indicative of someone’s ability to be the president.

 

* * *

 

Rust ambles around to the globe bar and parts the halves of the Earth to peruse the selection of very fine alcohol, each bottle just below half empty. He fixes a crystal tumbler of Glenlivet and holds it up, inquiring whether Marty wants it as the man himself strolls into the room, stopping behind Claire's chair and setting a hand on her shoulder. 'Hey, man. New suit?' He grins over at Rust.

Rust hands over Marty’s glass. ‘Mm, it’s probably the newest.’ He perches on the very edge of the loveseat, already itching for a smoke. ‘Ready to leave a few simple pleasures behind?’

'Don't think so.' Marty squeezes Claire's shoulder and bends to kiss her cheek, straightening to head over to Rust and sit beside him. 'You got yourself a date for tomorrow? People are makin' big things 'bout you bein' a bachelor at your age.'

'Marty, come _on_.' Claire laughs, sips from her glass, champagne-gold bubbles bursting on her top lip. 'I think the least of your worries is who Rust is or isn't dating.'

'Yeah, but it's all the goddamn press cares about.'

‘I don’t need no seat filler next to me. It’ll be enough to rub elbows with the usuals, in this entirely unusual circumstance.’ It’s a rib, but they’ve all known each other long enough that Rust can smile, less than privately.

Sighing, Marty shrugs and takes a drink. 'Hey, uh, Rust. I got caught up in a call with Carla Gomez. She said she'll take the job.'

'Boys, no politics until after dessert.' Claire stands up, setting her empty glass on the coffee table and heading through to the kitchen.

Marty watches her go, waits a beat until he’s sure she’s out of earshot and turns back to Rust, squinting, rubbing the back of his neck. 'You think she's definitely the best choice? 'Cause I ain't sure. That shit back in '09...'

'I said _no politics,_ ' Claire calls, distantly, in a sing-song voice.

A scowl. 'Woman's got ears like a bat,’ Marty mutters, at the kind of volume that implies he’s talking to himself, but means he’s sharing with Rust.

‘Ain’t never known each other _without_ politics,’ Rust glances in the direction of the kitchen, catches Claire as she sweeps past the archway, one loose curl of hair fluttering. ‘Gomez. The woman with the drug charges?’

'Yeah.' Uneasily, he rubs at the back of his neck. 'It's a gambit. I don't know if it'll pay off.'

‘Marty, you can make bigger decisions than this with much more confidence,’ Rust says, and it’s almost an affirmation but he delivers it with complete nonchalance. He was the exact same sort of gambit, after all.

'You're the one who suggested her, man. You're my second. I’m just telling you how it is right now. You want me to keep this shit to myself?’

‘What was she, sittin’ in house for Alabama, and this is one of the last choices you’re gonna make as a congressman? Shit, man, how you gon’ cope when they give you the nuclear launch codes?’

He scowls at Rust, standing up. 'No politics until after dessert. Madam’s orders, you heard.'

‘M’afraid I didn’t see a menu,’ Rust calls after Marty, before he follows him to the kitchen door.

As soon as she'd headed into the kitchen, Claire heads out again, this time to head to the front door to greet her parents. So it begins.

 

* * *

 


End file.
